Soccer Mom v. Mustache Dad

Sunday afternoon was Amanda's first soccer game of the season. We were the away team playing at the Vision Soccer Academy fields in Waukee, Iowa, about ten miles outside of Des Moines. Take the last gravel road on the right and park next to the 360 panorama of corn fields and the biggest blue sky since last October. Sunshine all over the place. Glorious.

Me, my lawn chair, and my book (my usual soccer game fair) approached the field and searched for a place to settle down for one and half hours of no moving, no email, no thinking, no nothing but for to sit and be. About 99 percent of the time Bob has other stuff going on so he can't go to Amanda's Sunday soccer games. But I don't mind because me and my personal time do just fine together.


"Mom, did you see me make that awesome move or were you reading your book?" asks my daughter, often, after any given game.

"You did great! I saw some of your moves." But she and I both know that I mostly read my book at any given game.

On this past Sunday, I looked for a place to settle and since I was the last parent to arrive the whole parent side of the field was filled up. I had to start the second row and it occurred to me that I had no idea which side was "my" side. I didn't know who the opponent parents were and who my people were. I looked and looked and seriously, I didn't recognize anyone. You may think that Des Moines is just another small town in Iowa, but it's big enough so that we don't know anyone. People in school, in church, in soccer, in baseball--they don't mix. They are all completely different sets of people. I'm sure it's not like this for our opposing, host team, Waukee, a true blue small town in Iowa, where everyone really does mix and match. I don't even see the one family we do know to a small degree, our car pool family.

So I picked a random spot close to the center line and settled into the peace of the afternoon and my book. Suddenly, interrupting my la la land with all the fervor of a Budweiser commercial, Mustache Dad emerged from the line of parents -- standing, pacing, and sweating about ten feet in front of me.

"YOU'RE CLUMPING! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP GIRLS! SEPARATE! LET'S GO WILDCATS!"

To be honest, I didn't know what our team name was, but I was pretty sure it wasn't Wildcats. I was sitting in the opposing parent section. And I was in a beer commercial with Mustache Dad and a selection of mom's with an usually high ratio of long red hair.

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? NICE KICK! QUIT STANDING AROUND AND LOOKING AT THE BALL! BE A LEADER!"

I considered moving, but I was already cozied in and besides, where would I go? I didn't know which way was my people. All I could do was pull out a scrap paper from my purse (a crumpled envelope with my rumpled wages for 2010, which I was supposed to give to our tax man) and start scribbling down all the things that Mustache Dad was screaming into my ears. They say that no one is safe when there's a writer around.

"DON'T BACK OFF! NICE JOB! OUTSIDE! KICK THE BALL! GET IT OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP, GIRLS!"

The one percent of the time that Bob has joined me at soccer games, he is tempted to be like Mustache Dad, feeling that urge to coach from the parent section. Coaching is a vocation that comes from deep within, apparently. I just can't take it. I tell Bob he absolutely cannot yell instructions from the side. It makes me feel bad for the real coaches. Or maybe I'm just a prude. The ref did tell Mustache Dad to cool it, but there was some kind of explanation that I didn't catch wind of to the effect that Mustache Dad continued with his high decibel drill sergeant act for the entire game.

At half time two of the red headed mothers kindly befriended me. "Hi! Are you Amber's mom?!"

When they looked at my confused face, they knew what I was going to say before I said it. I knew that at that point, they didn't care who's mom I was. I thought it best just to say a polite, "Oh, no, I'm from the, um, other side."

"Oh," they said, with dropped faces. "Well, it's nice to see you anyway!"

"Your soccer field is really pretty," I said.

"It's rustic," they said. "Thanks."

"I love the cornfields," I said.

They could not have known that I was reading Shirley Jackson's memoir, Life Among the Savages which chronicles the maddening minutia of being a mother, wife, and citizen of a small town. The more I read it, the more I am convinced it forms the basis of her chilling short story, "The Lottery." (Which by now you surely believe I'm obsessed with.) And after being haunted by that tale since sixth grade, I now wonder if the protagonist--that poor woman who got stoned to death by her neighbors--was actually her, the author, Shirley Jackson. Because sometimes you feel like everything and everyone is coming after you, even when you're just trying to get your kids dressed and breakfast on the table and your daughter to school and your son to piano lessons and yourself to work and your deadlines met and your coffee cup to not leak all over the inside of your car. Maybe she wasn't making a sweeping social statement, but instead just conveying the experience of an extremely overwhelmed and harried mother. Maybe she's just telling the story of a woman who can't get any peace and quiet.

"WOW, WHAT AN AWESOME KICK! DID YOU SEE THAT KICK? GREAT KICK! NOW GIRLS, QUIT YOUR CLUMPING! THEY'RE NOT SEEING HOW THEY'RE CLUMPING."

It got to 87 degrees on Sunday. (Back to 30 degrees on Monday.) And so Amanda and I stopped for ice cream on the way home from Waukee. I forgot the score.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog and I would like to especially thank my friend Marty for making my day by asking for The Snake Charmer's Wife. And while I'm on tributes, I'll offer one up for my husband too, who listens to me drone on and on about this and that frustration. I'm starting to think that God is just plain and simple gratitude.

With love, T

A Giant Man. Remembering The Rev. Robert Nervig.




l to r: Pastors Robert Nervig, Bob,
Rachel Thorson Mithelman, Harry Mueller at Bob's ordination, 2007

"I had a dream about you."

That's what Pastor Robert Nervig said about 25 years ago to Bob (my Bob), who was then a happy bachelor making a good living fitting and fabricating prosthetic limbs and orthopedic braces. Enjoying a peaceful life in Brooklyn, where he was raised.

"I had a dream that you would be the youth director here at church." The church, Trinity Lutheran, was situated on 45th Street in the Sunset Park neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. A community positively teeming with thousands of residents, and hundreds of kids with not much to do and no space to do it.

"Why would I give up a good job to be your youth director?" asked my Bob, who rather liked his quiet, bachelor life, and lucrative paycheck.

"Because I think you'd be good at it," said Pastor Bob Nervig with a gleam in his eye. "And just think of the possibilities. . ."

And many of you know the rest of the story. Pastor Bob and my Bob still keep (kept) in touch with the rascally kids who joined their youth group in that era, who are now lovely adults serving in their own ways as teachers, social workers, doctors, and entrepreneurs. Recently, at age 55, my Bob became an ordained minister and is joyfully serving his first call at St. John's Lutheran in Des Moines, whose people love him back one hundred fold. In some ways it seems so far away from 45th Street Brooklyn. And in other ways, it is a completely natural path for my Bob; yet one that he could not have imagined for himself if for not the dream of a mentor.


Who needs a good salary when you got this?
Seriously, here's the youth group, all grown up,
with Pastor Robert Nervig (making rabbit ears)
 at Bob's ordination in 2007.
Photo courtesy of Emily and Janeen, front row left and middle.

Pastor Bob Nervig imagined possibilities with not only my Bob, but so many other people. You can read the numerous tributes with your own eyes on his Caring Bridge site. "You changed my life" is a common theme. And now so many of us don't know quite what to make of the fact that he died today at about noontime. Apparently, peacefully and with many family members around him. Bob was blessed to see him twice in the past two weeks.

I can't even begin to say in this blog post what Pastor Robert Nervig has meant for my dear in-laws, the Speirs Family, indeed who are my in-laws because of the influence of Pastor Robert Nervig who one day, about 18 years ago, suggested that "Robbie" (my Bob's Brooklyn identity) take in a continuing education conference in the Black Hills of South Dakota (where I happen to be working at the time, and the rest of that is history).

It so it is a melancholy day here today. We think about the influence of one giant man on our lives, and in so many others. And we are so deeply grateful.

Is there really a God? Maybe, maybe not, but if you knew Pastor Robert Nervig, you would be certain that there is a God, and that God is generous, now and forever.

With love, T

But Who Will Clean Up the Projectile Vomit?

"Mom, I barfed."

I was happily sleeping, comfy in bed, middle of the night, when my 11-year-old son came to me with this news.

Admittedly, this is an abrupt change from the Egyptian revolution at the Snake Charmer's Wife. By the way, I thank all of you for your comments and support and prayers for my dear friend Heba and her family. And I thank Heba for the first hand account. I hope we can continue to foster this kind of global understanding at The Snake Charmer's Wife through personal accounts of real people.

Heba, habibi, my dear, if you're there -- thank you. From all of us -- thank you. I'll post your writing whenever you want. Just send it to me. You have a fan base here in the U.S.A. :-)

You may know that Heba and I became friends and Luther Seminary, where our whole families intertwined for several glorious years. I'm thrilled that I've been invited to write a chapter about family housing at Luther Seminary. That's my next project and I'll chat more about that later. But what you saw from Heba here on this blog, is just a sampling of the amazing friendships we made with people from all around the world at student housing.

But back to the barf.

That's Aidan's word. Barf. I prefer vomit or even throwing-up. But if I may be so bold as to offer advise to people who are seeking a partner in life, let me offer this wisdom: seek to partner with someone who will clean up the barf.

"Can you go tell Dad?" is how I responded to my sick son. I am still asleep and I so do not want to get out of bed and into the cold night air of upchucked food. (Our old house has a little heating issue, but that's for another dispatch.)

"Sure," my son said. I rolled over, snuggling into the flannel sheets. He told Bob, who was still up (nocturnal DNA), and who tackled that projectile vomitous carpet with the voracity of an athlete. If you are going to choose a spouse, choose someone who will scrub a 4 X 6 section of beige rug, splayed of brown colored stomache bile, like he really cares. Like he cares so much that he doesn't make you feel guilty for not taking this on. For sleeping through it. For not even mentioning it until two days later when you remember to say:

"By the way, thanks for cleaning up the vomit."

He's so intense about it that he doesn't even say you're welcome. Instead he tells you about all the strategies for getting up the stain, for getting out the smell. Like basketball plays. Or football maneuvers. Or baseball spring training. Projectile puke, surrender!

People, let me tell you, that is the kind of domestic partner you want. If it's too late, I'm so sorry, Maybe you can draw some comfort in the fact that there is one lucky woman in Des Moines, Iowa, who never has to clean up her children's body emissions. Be happy for my joy.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, Terri

Guest Post: Heba's Reflections on the Revolution

The Snake Charmer's Wife's favorite photo
from the revolution, courtesy of the Atlantic Magazine.
A protestor kissing an anti-protester police. 

I asked (begged) Heba to send me her reflections on the revolution and I'm so honored that she did. We would both be mighty grateful if you posted your comments of support. Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

...

"Do you think it's time to leave the country dear?" I asked Magdi anxiously.

"Honey, If I was out of the country, I would come back to be in Egypt during this difficult time" answered Magdi thoughtfully. I couldn't say a word. Magdi, to those who do not know him well, is very Egyptian.

"Take the kids with you tonight so they do their share in protecting the neighborhood and the country." I didn't realize how very Egyptian I am too until we were going through all this.

It is so hard to describe how my feelings were. There is alot in our lives we take for granted, one of them feeling secured. The horror we went through assured to us that our security is not in the government, the police, our properties or wealth because all this can change within a day and night. It is in GOD the only one who can protect us.

We all learnt valuable lessons. This revolution brought out the best in the Egyptian people. We never realized how much we love our country, or how civilized we all can be. The Muslim-Christian relationship was rediscovered again we learnt that there is a better way. We are stronger than what we think and can do better than what the old regime was trying to convince us with.

Before Jan. 25th I used to chat with those youth on Facebook. I realized how aware they were, but no one imagine the scenario of this revolution, not even the youth themselves. Mobarak was always late and his words were always provocative to everyone. On Tuesday Feb. 2nd everyone thought that his promise that neither him nor his son will run for elections again andthat he will reform the regime should be enough and finally we have a little hope, But Wednesday morning was the last straw when the young men and ladies were beaten to death for no obvious reason. Everyone was confused. This took the whole matter to a different detour, and the rest of the event you probably know.

I went to "Tahrir" square on Wednesday the 9th and saw a huge spectrum of people. It was so wonderful to see such diverse people gathered together for one cause, Bread – Dignity and Freedom. Some were cleaning, some were singing, some were looking after protestors needs, some were treating the injured ones, some were throwing jokes, but many were shouting protesting sentences. I joined the last group under the big flag circling the square.

On Friday Feb.11th Mobarak stepped down (most probably the military forced him to do so) celebration filled the whole country streets, songs, dancing, and fireworks. We have never seen Egypt celebrating in such way not even when the national football team wins one of the world cup matches.

This revolution was very healthy because it clears up many things, but this needs another blog my dear friends

We see Egypt now with new eyes. Even the air smells different.

Love to all,

Heba

"The spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express."

Once I heard a pastor preach that if you don't know how to pray it's Ok, because we all have things we're good at and things we're not. I always remember that because I do not consider myself good at praying. To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in it. I just plain don't see how human pleas can advise an almighty God of the universe. Plus, the outcomes seem so random.

And yet I am calling on you to pray.

Don't call on me to make sense, I'm just doing what my friend asked. Heba asked me to ask you to all pray. To enlist your prayer chains. To organize your prayer groups. To make your conversation with God, with Jesus, with the Holy Ghost. To call upon the spirits. To generate the positive energy. To caste out the demons.

In recent weeks, I have been saying the Lord's Prayer a lot. Over and over. The repetition relaxes me. The hope reassures me. And if it does unleash some kind of a supernatural power for good, well that would be a bonus. Maybe I'm just tired and I don't know how else to resolve my daily thinking but to repeat a mantra.

It's actually ironic that I hold such doubts about prayer because I'm basically writing a book about it and the surprising ways I have utilized it. My book, that I attempt to write a half hour a day. (Not lately, though.) We were seriously living on a prayer when Bob was sick (I keep bringing that up lately) and even though it was a true blue miracle he survived, how can I say it was due to prayer given all the people who do not survive tragedy? I can not. But I can say this -- prayer always made me feel better. It made me feel better when I was alone with an evil presence. And it made me feel better when neighbors came and prayed on our behalf.

Will prayer assure a peaceful resolution in Egypt? All I can say is that question is not mine to answer. And it is not my call to ask you to pray. I ask because Heba asks. And Heba believes in prayer with all her heart, mind and soul.

Today I actually panicked and took my recent posts offline. I deleted all my facebook references. I asked my editor to remove my post on LivingLutheran.com. I worried that my words would implicate friends. I envisioned myself as fanning the violence. Only after triple checking with Heba that it's OK, did I put it back online. She said that this blog is "a great support." But it's not because of me--it's because of all of you, dear Charmer Readers.Thank you for coming here. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for promoting peace.

Pray for Egypt.

With love, T

The Spirit Intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express. Romans 8:26

The Fantastical and Tonight

I keep thinking about the Egyptian men and boys doing night patrol to protect their neighborhoods. It's about 4:30 a.m. in Cairo as I write this, and I can't wrap my brain around the idea that two boys, Rafi and Wasim (see pics two posts below), are doing night patrol along with their father and other boys and men.

I think about when 4th-grade Wasim first knocked on our door to invite 2nd-grade Amanda to ride bikes together. He was so polite and smiley and elementary-school-handsome, it made us instant believers in the merits of an arranged marriage. It was the first time we let Amanda outside without parental supervision because there is a quality about Wasim that makes you trust him. They rode bikes a lot that summer, the first taste of independence and freedom. The two rode around the perimeter of family housing: through the playground, across the parking lot, up the hill, behind the building, and then circling the same route again. It was almost like their legs peddled in sinc. When I think of the two bike riding together, it plays slow motion in my mind, with a sappy happy soundtrack. It's how you imagine the perfect kind of childhood.

I think about Rafi and Aidan potty training together. Not that it was purposefully together, but we just spent a lot of time together and it happened to be that time of life for both boys. We used words like poo poo, pee pee, poopie or some other brilliant parenting phrase. Rafi's word was kaka. So we also heard that word and in fact, Aidan used all these words interchangebly. But it gets better. Our next door neighbors were from Tanzania and so Swahili was spoken in that household, where Aidan also spent alot of time. Apparently, the Swahili word for brother is--you guessed it--kaka. Aidan thought this was fantastical! How could one word be so naughty yet so nice? And perfectly acceptible to say in front of adults. So Aidan got to work with his bilingual skills, trying out linguistical tricks with his friends such as, "Where is your kaka? Do you have a kaka? Can I see your kaka?" and you get the idea. He considerred himself clever, and to be honest so did I. Still, we instructed him that he could only use words in a way that made sense to the family he was with. "Oh," he said.

If you know me, you know I don't understand how prayer works, why it seems to work sometimes and not other times. I can't help but to ask why would an all powerful God needs human advise to do the right thing. Yet I lean on prayer when I don't know what else to do. Heba and Magdi are full believers in the power of prayer. When Bob's liver failed, they were already back in Cairo, and they told me later that when they heard the news they instantly got down on their knees and prayed for healing.

Tonight, I don't know what else to do. But I do know that I don't like the idea of Wasim and Rafi doing night patrol. I don't like the idea of what could happen tomorrow, given the violence today. And so I pray that Mubarrek would accept a dignified and speedy departure from his position. That this country can start to rebuild. That the forces of goodness will prevail in the short run, the long term, tonight, tomorrow and forever.

And I give thanks for all of you who join me in this call for peace.

With love, T

Heba and Magdi ask. . .

Just heard from Heba and Magdi. . .

First I wanted to thank everyone who has asked about them because today when I got a suprise  phone call (evidently the internet is back on in Egypt) it was wonderful to tell them that "everyone is worried, everyone is praying, everyone is asking about you."

Our connection was not clear at all, but I wanted to convey what I heard from Heba:

They are OK.

The seminary is OK.

They are very worried with how this situation will resolve.

The kids are scared and they're trying to avoid watching too much news.

They are holed up in their apartment and running out of supplies.

Yet they have received deliveries of food and blankets. Heba says she has no idea who is providing these supplies and how they are making deliveries. (>>Please see Heba's clarification in the comments section.)

Magdi and the boys join the men on night patrol to protect the building.

Evidently, Mubarrek is telling people that they must go back to work tomorrow. (I believe Heba is an English teacher and also a host to visitors from outside the country.) She's worried because her commute is through the square and things have turned violent. (Mubarrek has called out his thugs--my words, not hers.) She's trying to decide what to do. Mubarrek says that people who don't report to work will be docked pay.

Heba asks this: She asks if we would all pray. If we could arrange prayer groups and prayer chains. I told her that I would convey this message.

Thanks so much to all. If you'd like to leave a message here that shows your support, I know it would be greatly appreciated.

Peace . Love . Joy . Blessings . Change . Do the right thing . Be kind . Help one another.

Love, T